


Tenez-moi

by PurplePatchwork



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Emotions, Falling In Love, M/M, Slight Obsession, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:56:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurplePatchwork/pseuds/PurplePatchwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When street artist Francis Bonnefoy meets an English professor, both the focus of his work and life changes drastically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenez-moi

The life of a street artist wasn’t exactly an easy one. Francis Bonnefoy had found that out a very long time ago. He remembered those early days, back when he first started his work on the streets of Paris, La Ville Lumière.

He had no idea of prices, either selling his paintings for a much too small amount or not selling them at all due to it being too expensive. Accidentally going to corners that were already taken, he could still recount the fights that had often gotten him into. And you had to be there at all times, whether it was sunny or raining cats and dogs, for how else were you to pay the rent of the small room you called home?

Luckily for him, he had his charms. Flirting with the ladies (and with the men as well, because why only give your love to one sex?), he gradually made fame for himself. And after he started visiting a certain café and made some friends in the same branch there, he finally began learning the true value of his works. He remembered vividly the first time he could eat more than a slice of dry bread with a glass of the cheapest wine in the evening. _‘This is how kings must live,’_ that’s what he thought back then.

But whether he was going through hard times or living what could be considered wealthily, he always loved his work. Painting was his life. He drew whatever he felt like, knowing perfectly well how to capture the mood with a single adaptation of colours, with a simple stroke of his brush. Mixing red with white and orange, telling the story of Paris through his art. From the lively bustling of tourists at the Quartier Latin to the look of Le Jardin des Tuileries on a dreary day. This city had a heart of its own, it sung and laughed and sighed in melancholic wisps. There was always light, always l’amour, whether it be a chaste summer love or a bittersweet meeting of tortured souls. They all had a story to tell, a voice that added to the spirit of Paris. And Francis had assigned himself to bring their stories to life through his painting.

Ah, he loved his job. Loved his city. Even though it pained him as well, but don’t they say the restless are those who make the greatest works of art?

There was one thing Francis didn’t do, and that was drawing models. He painted the streets, the buildings and greenery, the lights and sky and rivers running beneath. People where different. People were difficult. He could draw emotions and conversations by using only strokes of colour, but he didn’t do people. The human body was a work of art he’d rather not be messing with.

And then he came.

“What on earth is that supposed to be?”

Francis looked up from his work, a blotch of burgundy smeared across his stubbly cheek.

“Pardon?”

A man was inspecting one of his works. He was wearing a neat suit, a top hat perched on his messy blond coup, and his eyebrows looked like they came crawling straight out of a horror film.

 _‘Englishman,’_ his mind registered sourly. Damn tourists. And he spoke with the most _outrageous_ accent.

Still, he put on his most charming smile as he leant on the other’s shoulder.

“That, mon ami, is La Tour Eiffel by night.”

The tourist stiffened, but didn’t squirm out of his grasp. It was as if Francis had posed a challenge, and the other was meeting it head-on.

“Tsk. Looks more like my aunt’s wilted fern to me.”

Francis instantly let go, straightening his figure as imaginary bolts of lightning tainted the sky behind him.

“Excusez-moi? That is our city’s most famous work of architecture! Not some dame’s dying bush.”

The Englishman fully turned to face him, looking equally as insulted as Francis felt.

“And who, might I ask, are you to talk so disrespectfully about my lovely aunt?”

“Oh, I am not insulting her. I am simply pitying the precious lady for being family of such a bâtard like you.”

The other’s face turned crimson, and Francis just knew he could see steam coming out of his eyes. Never before had he met someone with such an expressive face, seeing every inch of rage crawling over the skin.

…Why were they fighting again? Oh, right. The idiot had offended his art.

“Well then, Frog, I suppose there’s nothing left for me to do but leave this forsaken place.”

“Fine, please do!” Francis hissed, finding pleasure in the way the other’s frown tightened. “I have no idea why you even came to me in the first place, if all you wanted to do was criticize my work.”

And then the stranger did something completely unexpected: he laughed. Not a joyful laugh, but a mocking, sneering little thing.

“Perhaps I was just bored out of my mind here in this silly town. Perhaps I thought it interesting to see someone selling paintings out on the street. But do not think for one moment, Frog, that I came to admire your art. Because all I can do and ever will be able of doing, is see flaw upon flaw upon flaw.”

And with that he spun on his heels and started walking away, an energetic push to his step. Francis was left behind, completely dumbfounded.

Never before had he met someone so infuriating, so inexplicably rude, so, so…

…

That night, all Francis could do was paint the most horrific eyebrows he had ever seen.

…

The man was back again. Francis knew it was him before even seeing his green eyes, for only that man had such weird eyebrows.

“What did you come back for, petit? Like my art after all?”

The other snorted and rolled his eyes, having Francis staring at the way his eyebrows rolled up and down. They were so expressive, as if they were living a life of their own.

“No thank you. I simply remembered some critique I hadn’t bestowed upon your… ‘work’, yet.”

Francis wiped his hands on his pants and placed them on his hips, swaying them to the side.

“Well then mister look-at-me-I-am-so-smart, might I at least know your name before you start insulting me again?”

“Don’t see why I should give it to you, you haven’t exactly done anything to make yourself worthy of that knowledge.”

Francis blinked in surprise, before letting out an amused chuckled.

“You really think yourself an aristocrat, don’t you Eyebrows?”

“Eye-“ the man frowned, his ears turning red again. “Listen here Frog, do you want my critique or not?”

“Go ahead,” the Frenchman interrupted.

They stared each other down for what felt like an eternity, neither person showing any sign of backing off. Finally, the tourist slowly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Words were neatly scribbled in a corner, as if this man really had nothing better to do than to think of insults to throw at this poor street artist.

“First of all, if you want to draw the Eiffel Tower, draw the bloody Eiffel Tower, and not some weird blotch of grey. That could’ve been a spoiled baguette for all I know.”

Francis felt his lips twitch up despite of himself.

“Secondly, what is wrong with your usage of colours? Your paintings either look as if they have fallen in a tub of blood or you threw a whole bucket of mold over it!”

Francis actually had the audacity to smile.

“Are those legitimate questions, Eyebrows?”

“Damn right they are, Frog. I have seen a lot of paintings, but never something like this. It’s as if you can’t make up your mind! On one painting it looks like you’re a lovesick dope, on the next it almost seem as if you’re depressed.”

Francis crossed his arms, sighing wistfully.

“But is that not an artist’s forte? That they are able to put their emotions into their works? I find it quite an accomplishment that you managed to feel anything at all when looking at my paintings, considering how much of a stick-in-the-mud you are.”

“Of course I noticed, I’m a human being aren’t I?”

Francis grabbed the Englishman by his arm and guided him to one of his paintings.

“All right, then what do you feel when looking at this one?”

His companion leant closer, face twitching with every little emotion that went through him. This man might be an ever-frowning grump, but it was very easy to read him. The small lines next to his eyes, a little scrunching up of the nose, he even saw a flash of tongue as he contemplated every part of the painting.

It made Francis feel strangely proud of himself, getting this rude foreigner to appreciate his works.

“Well, if you can think away those hideous trees and lovey-dovey couples-“ Francis was about to snap at him when his next words came as a surprise “-it makes you feel terribly lonely. As if you’re looking down upon a dream, something you can never have. You make it seem all rosy and perfect, but when it comes down to it there is this sense of loneliness seeping in. As if you’re just spectating, unable to reach out.”

That was… oddly spot-on. It gave Francis goose bumps with how right those words sounded.

Of course, the green-eyed blond had to ruin the moment directly afterwards.

“It’s too bad you have to dig through layers upon layers of trash before you can get to those feelings.”

Francis fumed as he was abruptly reminded of why he hated that outrageous set of eyebrows attached to a pair of legs.

“Well, I never asked for your opinion. And if you are not here to appreciate my art or buy something, I must ask you to leave.”

The other sent him a smug smirk.

“Arthur Kirkland.”

Francis paused. “Quoi?”

“You asked for my name, right? It’s Arthur Kirkland. Figured I’d give you it since you let me speak my mind.”

And just as fast as it has risen, his anger leaked out of him again.

So the walking mystery finally had a name.

“Francis Bonnefoy, upcoming artist whose name you shouldn’t forget.”

Arthur snorted and firmly shook his head, both men smiling rigidly when they felt their knuckles crack.

“I think I’ll come back here again. I haven’t finished giving you my opinion yet. See you around, Frog.”

And for some reason he found himself looking forward to his next visit.

…

Somehow Arthur visiting him became a daily occurrence. Looking at his paintings, criticizing every single thing he could find, never buying. Francis grew used to having the other around, to their senseless bickering keeping his brain from watering and slacking off. It was refreshing, enticing, a wonderful change of air.

It didn’t really come to a surprise to either of them when they one day found themselves in a café, discussing subjects other than art. Francis with a café au lait and Arthur being very sceptic of his chocolat chaud, they further got to know each other.

The poor Frenchman found out Arthur was an avid reader and that his profession of choice was that of a university professor back in England. He was currently here in France to do research for his curriculum, and had come to Paris on suggestion of a colleague. He also learnt that Arthur’s eyebrows could be quite entrancing when the Brit listened to him describe his love for food.

Yes, he was indeed getting used to having Arthur around.

Which made it all the worse when that odd man suddenly disappeared without a trace.

From one day to another he was gone, as if he’d never been there in the first place. Francis awaited his arrival just like he did every day. He’d put up the perfect painting for his quote-unquote friend to study, and was anxious to hear and counter all his critique, get to know the thoughts of that strange little man.

Yet Arthur never came. Nor the day after, nor the one after that.

Francis waited.

He saw the leaves turn orange and red, felt the winds stir as summer transformed into autumn. The people began wearing less brightly coloured cloaks and jackets, rain painting the city in a more moody tint.

He didn’t understand. Why did Arthur leave him so suddenly? Had he said something wrong, done something that didn’t suite to the Brit’s tastes? Had Arthur finally grown tired of arguing, had he been kidnapped and brutally murdered?

His insecurity had a great influence on his work. More dark colours came into play, more grey and black and disturbing whirlpools of emotion. And every night he found himself drawing the same thing, over and over again. Eyebrows, like giant caterpillars crawling over his canvas. Never quite how he remembered them to be. He often woke up with the irresistible urge to just draw those, those things, those hideous horrific things that reminded him so much of the sort of friend he somehow lost.

And Francis waited.

No matter how many days, weeks, months passed, no matter how many bottles of wine he drank, no matter how big the feeling of loss and the bags under his eyes grew in size.

He waited.

* * *

And then one day, guess who was standing in front of his door. A sheepish half-smile on his face, eyes still the exact same shade of green as Francis always knew them to be. He had a paper with a quickly scribbled address in one hand, which he crumbled as soon as he noticed Francis staring.

“H-hello,” the blond said, awkwardly scratching at his neck. “I uh, I asked some of the street artists if they knew where you lived. You know, since I don’t. They said they hadn’t seen you much lately, but gave me the directions to your place anyway. Nice chaps, them.”

He trailed off as Francis kept looking like him as if he’d seen a phantom.

“Where did you go?” he asked, voice strangely calm despite his inner turmoil and confusion.

It had been over half a year, after all. Snow covered the roofs and created puffs of breath on flushed noses. True, he’d been waiting, but after all this time he hadn’t really expected Arthur to return.

“Oh, well I told you I was only here for research. The university called me back, and I was given almost no time to pack my things. But now I’ve gotten some time to do research again, so… Here I am, I suppose.”

He vaguely gestured at himself, before letting his arms flop back down.

“Are you going to invite me in or do I have to keep standing here? It’s quite nippy outside, mind you.”

Francis blinked, and suddenly remembered his manners.

“Of course. Do come in,” he replied, voice sounding mechanical and alien to his ears.

Arthur either didn’t comment or didn’t take notice, gratefully stepping into Francis’ small apartment. The Frenchman closed the door behind him as if in a daze, a weird Arthur-induced daze.

“Nice place you got here Frog. Small but cosy. Although I would’ve decorated it in an entirely different manner,” Arthur rambled on, casually taking off his coat as Francis kept standing by the door.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” the Frenchman more whispered than spoke, shuffling off towards his kitchen.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll look around for a bit.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Francis hoarsely replied. He still couldn’t fully believe Arthur was really here. He also couldn’t believe how great the impact was that angry man had on him.

“Oh, that wallpaper is simply atrocious. Another one of your artistic epiphanies? Oh, what on earth have you done to this fern! It’s all withered and dried out. I’ll water it for you in a moment, if you don’t mind. And what is this? Oh, your paintings! I’ll just take a quick peak, all right? Haven’t had the chance to criticize your work for months now. Oh, what do we have hereeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”

Silence. Blissed, wonderful silence.

Alarming silence, very alarming indeed.

Francis quickly made his way over to where his guest had stilled, curious to see the reason as to his sudden serenity.

Arthur was standing stiff as a stick in the middle of his atelier, eyes wide and a hand clasped over his mouth, looking at…

Oh no. _Those_ paintings. The obsessive things he’d never meant to show anyone, perhaps not even himself.

“I…” Arthur began, staring at the paintings of millions of eyebrows with an unreadable expression.

Francis almost felt the bottle of wine slip through his fingers, but could hold onto it at the last moment. He quickly put it down and set to explaining himself, or at least trying.

“I don’t know why I drew those. Please forget you’ve ever seen them, they were just silly experiments, mistakes-“ he stepped past the other and threw a blanket over the paintings, like a criminal hiding the evidence. “It’s not even what you think it is, really, I-“

“Francis.”

He almost bit his tongue in his haste to stop talking. Slowly he turned around, almost afraid to face the man he had waited for so long. Because he truly didn’t know what had encouraged him to draw those.

Francis let out an audible gasp once he laid eyes on Arthur. The Englishman was looking at him with such strong emotions, a mixture of hurt, understanding and pity, a familiar longing that set Francis’ heart on fire.

“Why didn’t you tell me? All this time…”

Arthur laughed, and Francis took a step backwards. He frantically shook his head.

“I-I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do. Don’t deny it. You can’t deny it after all of this.”

“But really-“

“ _Francis_.”

And suddenly Arthur was close, really close, too close to remain comfortable. Those green eyes mere inches from his own, hands firmly grasping his shoulders, unspoken words sizzling in the air left between them.

And suddenly it became too much. The missing, the loneliness, the absence of a kindred soul.

Francis knew exactly what he needed.

Arthur jumped when a hand was gently placed on his cheek, Francis bending over to murmur with wavering voice.

“Tenez-moi, Arthur. Tenez-moi, s’il te plaît.”

_Hold me._

And he wept as Arthur took him into his arms, stroking the back of his head and murmuring soothing words. Swaying him around in an odd dance, giving an answer to the mute question.

_I understand._

“Will you- will you model for me?” his broken voice came after what felt like hours.

He never did models. Not once in his life. But this man was an exception to every rule there existed.

Arthur complied.

* * *

Spring brought life to the streets of Paris. Everywhere one could hear joyous chattering and laughter, the occasional chanson intermingling with the scent of freshly baked bread.

Francis finished his latest work with one final swoop of his brush, nodding approvingly when he overlooked the result. His smile grew as two arms snaked their way around his waist, a chin propped on his shoulder.

“It’s rubbish,” came Arthur’s lazy voice, making Francis laugh.

“It’s supposed to be you, chéri.”

“What?” Arthur frowned, looked closer, let out a yawn as he pulled up the blanket covering his bare body. “It’s still rubbish.”

“And so are you, mon tresor,” Francis sighed, turning his head to the side to place a loving kiss on Arthur’s cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> Words:  
> Tenez-moi: Hold me  
> La Ville Lumière: The City of Light  
> Excusez-moi: Excuse me  
> Bâtard: Bastard  
> Petit: Little (one)  
> Quoi: What  
> S’il the plait: Please (less official, familial)  
> Chéri: Dear  
> Mon tresor: My treasure


End file.
